


Aurora Burning: Waning Crescent

by preferredmethodofprocrastination



Series: Perigee - The Closest Point in Orbit [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Children of Characters, Desk Sex, F/M, Office Sex, Secret Children, Time Tots | Babies (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24012445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preferredmethodofprocrastination/pseuds/preferredmethodofprocrastination
Summary: River remembers Aurora's creation.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/River Song, The Doctor/River Song
Series: Perigee - The Closest Point in Orbit [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730518
Kudos: 21





	Aurora Burning: Waning Crescent

She hadn’t expected him, hadn’t even called, but he showed up to the university in his blue pinstripe suit and his sneakers. Just outside her office door the Tardis landed, and he popped his head in, eyes sad and sallow. She met the eyes and stopped her writing, put down her pen.

“Doctor,” she said, folding her hands on her desk, waiting for him to speak.

“I’m a bit new,” he said, scratching behind his ear. That was an understatement. He was so very young, a puppy of a Doctor. She collected herself from examining him and cleared her throat.

“I can see that. You come when I call nowadays, not the other way round. There’ll be a time when you come for me, though,” she smiled at his boyish embarrassment, coupled with the strange melancholy she felt wafting off him like a bad smell.

“Oh” he paused. “Sorry,” he said, eyes cast down.

“It’s alright, sweetie,” she pushed back her chair, let him get a good look at her, for she deemed to be the only eye catching thing in his sight, not her diary, not the hundred books and artifacts from every time and place she’d collected in her office, not the small picture that showed her little family, which she neatly turned face down. He looked only at her, the red dress she’d worn all those years ago when she’d enrolled to receive her doctorate. It wrapped snugly round her, tied off at her waist, dipped low into her cleavage, but with full tight sleeves. 

“I was hoping you could tell me what we do?” he asked, hands in his pockets.

“That depends on the day,” she smiled at him, but then realized his expression had fallen even more. He was shaking with sadness, with the effort not to break down.

“Can I touch…?” he asked, the words three sobs he couldn’t choke back.

She stood from her desk and approached him. God, he knew so little, wanted to know so much. She took his hands to her face and braced her own arms around his back. She could feel his frantic hearts beating in his chest. He smelled like dust and sweat and tears and books. He curled his fingers in her hair and pulled her to his chest. It wasn’t touching for desire, at least at first. It was feeling the warmth in each other’s bodies, the beating of each other's hearts. They stood like that for a while and she let him cry into her hair, kiss her scalp clumsily. He stopped crying and simply pressed close to her.

“Doctor,” she said, drawing her hands over his back, his waist, moving to his stomach and his chest, pressing him away. When he was a few inches away she looked up at him, met his big sad eyes again.

“River?” he asked.

“Let’s go somewhere,” she replied, her smile widening as he smiled too, for the first time since his arrival. It was quickly banished.

“I have a question first,” he asked seriously.

“We’ll see if I can answer it,” she smiled, grabbing hold of his tie, straightening it, tucking it in. 

“When did you see me last?”

“It wasn’t long ago,” she smoothed his suit coat and his hands fell to her waist.

“Where?” he trembled.

“The Singing Towers of Darillium,” she paused. “You cried then too, you melancholy fool. Let’s  _ go _ somewhere!”

She kissed him, and felt the newness in his mouth, he had her by the waist. She could taste the desperation in him, like salt in seawater or metal in blood. He kissed back, hard and soft at the same time, and she pressed into him, only to be pushed against the desk. She gave in to him, though she could easily have matched him in strength. She eased onto the desk surface, pushed back her papers and picture frames, books and bottles. He stood between her legs and kissed her again. She could feel with every passing moment that he was becoming more and more hers. He rested his hands on her knees, made circles there as they kissed. She indicated her impatience with a rough tug at his shirt, untucking it.

“Can this be somewhere?” he asked, breaking the kiss, breathless, shirt half undone, tie askew.

“Of course, sweetie,” she said, finishing off his tie, flinging it towards the Tardis, letting it hang off the top corner.

“Do you always wear lace?” he asked, peeking at the exposed edge of her brassiere. 

“When I’m not wearing nothing,” she teased. He undid the back of her bra through her dress, while kissing her, a feat that would have left the clumsy one or the stern one absolutely flummoxed. He untied the front of the dress and peeled it off her shoulders, down her wrists. The bra slipped off after. He opened the bottom of the dress and stroked her thighs, curious, but unable to look away from her top half. He did keep his eyes flicking between her bared breasts and her face, which she appreciated, but she could understand his distraction. He reached out gently, stroked up the underside of her breast and then paused with fingers torturously and tenuously toying with her stiffened nipple. The other hand drew her chin up. She kissed him again, hot with desire, burning with longing.

“Don’t you have colleagues?” he asked, eyes intense.

“It’s a Friday night. They’re at home,” she said breathy, dismissively, now too far down the road of sin to stop the heat in her belly, the dampness between her thighs, wanting him to concentrate too. He plucked at the other nipple and she arched her back, pressing against him.

“You’ve got no one to go home to, then?” he pressed closer, sucking a kiss on her neck. 

“No,” she lied. Anita was with the children, playing games at the dinner table or packing them off to bed.

“Then we can stay here.”

It was like the burning of a star, building and building between them. There was a while when time disappeared, left them blissfully untouched as they fucked. It was messy, breathy, tender. How was it so tender and so warm, such a supernova of sensation and emotion? River couldn’t think enough to discover the answer. They were both blinded, clinging to one another, breathless, boneless, aching for touch and needing a reprieve from it at the same time. They ended much as they’d begun, with River’s head on the Doctor’s chest, him kissing her crown of curls.

“That was good,” she laughed.

He nodded and kissed her again. He smiled and reached down to retrieve her bra. She slapped his chest and took it from him, folding it neatly and shoving it in her bag. Dawn broke outside the window, red and wild. It had been a long time since he’d arrived. River dressed herself in one direction and the Doctor in another. She caught him looking back at her as he buttoned his shirt unevenly. She tied her dress neatly.

“Till the next time, I suppose,” River said, squaring up to him as he plucked his tie from the Tardis and handing it to him.

“Till the next time, Doctor River Song,” he kissed her again, running his hand down to the small of her back, but no lower, as he had not long ago. She could still feel his hands on her arse, her now tender breasts, the smooth skin of her thighs. She shuddered the end of the kiss and watched as the Tardis disappeared.

River walked home heels in her hands, padding towards her neat, snug little home. There was a clamor within, the sound of wooden spoons in metal bowls, sizzling bacon and eggs, the whining scream of a more than ready tea kettle begging to be taken from the heat. She unlocked the door and entered. A scramble of feet came towards her, the twins, six year old bundles of energy and chaos, but with a penchant for planning that chaos. They attacked from both sides and she tumbled forwards, graciously yielding to their giggles, their hands tugging her down. 

“I’m down! I’m down!” She laughed, tickling and being tickled in return, relishing the boys’ hearty squeals and giggles.

“I’ll get the cuffs!” Dora yelled, sliding in sock feet to where she kept the trick cuffs with the safety release and the good old fashioned nerf gun she’d found in Amy and Rory’s house when she, Brian, and her unexpected brother Anthony had cleaned it years back, when she’d been pregnant with the twins, in fact. Dora shot River in the leg with a foamy dart before pouncing and cuffing one of her hands to a nearby chair leg. 

“Get the artifact!” Freya shouted. She dove for River’s satchel and slid it across the floor away from River.

Anita popped her head out of the kitchen. She was a regular feature in their house, the favorite babysitter and the most flexible, willing to stay an unexpected night or an odd weekend.

They ate their breakfast together, telling stories of their night with Anita.

Weeks later River’s body settled into the routine of pregnancy again. She was familiar with it by then. She woke each day with the dawn, body reminding her that she was, in fact, growing her fifth time lord. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, or woke too early, Freya would snuggle up to her in bed. She was thankful for the trust that brought her 14 year old to the safety of her presence with the same regularity it brought her 11 year old and her 6 year olds. She stroked her hair, distracting herself from the nausea till she could no more, then quietly padding to her bathroom and tying back her hair. Freya was the first to notice, of course, the twins too engaged in school and puzzles and games, Dora too caught up in the next section of the university’s library. Freya caught sight of the prenatal vitamins, the soft bump, the forgiving dresses and asked one morning after she joined River in her bed.

“One last baby, huh?” she said, groggily, huddling up beneath the comforter and simulated fall breezes swirled outside. River groaned and rolled over and sighed, propping herself up on one elbow. “This is the last one, right?” River pretended to think about it. “Right” River shrugged sarcastically. “Mum! There’ll be six of us!”

“Damn right she’s the last one.” River said, flopping onto her pillows. “Do you need birth control?” she asked. “Not that you should be having sex yet, but you might and I want you to be...”

“Muuuuuuum.” Freya complained. 

“Only asking, love.” She kissed Freya’s forehead.

The baby was born, wailing and pink on River’s bed, many months later. She’d caught it too late, mistaking the honest labor for false, and had caught the slippery infant, kneeling awkwardly against the headboard. She’d been half unaware of the sound she’d been making, wasn’t sure if she’d yelled or grunted or moaned to push the baby into the world, but knew that the children were all on edge, that they’d have woken up. Despite their happy and relatively safe childhood on the moon she had instilled in them a sense of caution. They knew when to hide, when to run, when to band together, always band together. The boys were the first awakened by the cries, peering in the door to catch River , but quickly ran to wake their sisters. 

River breathed heavily, feeling her age a bit, in fear and in pain. Though age meant less for a semi-time lord than it would for a human, she was indeed aging, imagined that if Rory was there to fuss over her for working too hard, for not taking care of herself, he would have. The newborn continued to squall, flailing tiny, perfectly formed limbs. River held her against her chest till she calmed and counted her fingers and her toes, her heartbeats too.

“Mum?” 15 year old Freya crept in, shutting the door, just to, behind her, keeping the curious others away.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” River leaned back, a rivulet of sweat running down her forehead. “She’s alright.” The baby mewled as if on cue, stretching one of her legs out and then drawing it back in. Freya looked at her with wonder, approached and settled lightly on the edge of the bed, ready to run if she needed to.

“And you?” Freya asked. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“Can I get anything? Anyone?”

“Maybe in a bit,” River said. She smiled, reached out to cup her eldest daughter’s cheek. She reached up and held the hand to her face, tears shining in her eyes, more green than usual, some faraway reflection of her father’s presence.The boys peered around the doorjamb and crept in, thick brows furrowed in concentration. It often seemed as though they spoke to one another without words, as though their identicality left them with a stronger psychic link. Dora sat in the doorway, cross legged. Her hands held a precious relic of River’s private library, one not duplicated anywhere else in the universe, a gift from the Doctor. Not her blue diary, no. The children knew better than to touch it, much less read it. It was a copy of a book from Gallifrey, a history formed in poetic myth.

The swirls of Gallifreyan writing on the page had always swum a little before River’s eyes, even when he’d taught her more, given her poetry and prose, law and legend to read she’d found it difficult. But she’d taught Freya and Dora, and they took to it like fish to swimming. Cas and Poll too, could read great swaths of text with little effort. She’d never told them who their father was, or who their fathers were as it were, kept her work separate from their home, her outside life away from them. Anyone who knew their combined parentage would know they were valuable, then they would be in danger. Their ignorance seemed bliss, for the most part, but she knew it could hardly be ignorance. Their bright minds had probably worked out some semblance of understanding long ago, and it was her ignorance that gave her peace.

_ “The first sun rose golden, and the second one rose red, painting the planet with their light. They lit the shadows and by their light, the people of the shadows anchored time, and braided it like words, traveled it like the dried western seas.”  _ Dora read in her beautiful even tone. The room brightened with each syllable she read of the poetic version of Gallifrey’s history. “ _ The people and their hearts were born from the shadow people, as time formed them and baptized them in the vortex to be the masters of the universe. They knew their blessings as their curses and watched time, felt time, lived time, and birthed time lords. _ ” The baby was awake and squirming still, newborn eyes wide.

“ _ From the schism and the vortex they were born, and the blessed return there as the cursed upon the ending of their lives. _ ” River looked in awe as her children recited the last stanza together, their unison of reflection a little unnerving. Dora looked up from the book.

“What will you call her, mum?” she asked in English, her pert little accent coming back after the strange swirling round of her voice during her Gallifreyan reading.

“I think she’ll be Aurora.”

“But what will we  _ call _ her?” Dora closed the book and set it on one of the shelves that lined their halls. She leaned on the doorframe.

“Rory, we’ll call her Rory.” River said, stroking the soft downy curls that topped Aurora, Rory’s, head. 

“After grandad?” Cas and Polly asked in unison.


End file.
